One Week
by Just Add Lipstick
Summary: On one of the warmer days of August, Castiel announced that he had a week left. One week before his stolen grace burned out. One week before his vessel died. One week before he had to leave the Winchesters forever. Human!Dean, Subtle Destiel, Sam/Cas bonding, rated T for character death. This fic chronicles Castiel's last week with his favorite humans.
1. Day One

On one of the warmer days of August, Castiel announced that he had a week left. One week before his stolen grace burned out. One week before his vessel died. One week before he had to leave the Winchesters forever.

He didn't say all of this, of course. Could he really be expected to?

One of the warmer days of August, he stood in the Winchester's kitchen and watched Dean make himself breakfast. He noticed the scars and calluses that gave character to the hunter's skin, each rough patch a tribute to some monster slayed, to some human saved. He noticed the way that Dean's light brown hair had grown longer than ever before, with Dean too preoccupied to realize it.

"Dean," Castiel said it quietly, but Dean heard. Of course Dean heard.

"Hey, Cas. What's up?" Dean turned, and Castiel noticed how bloodshot the hunter's eyes were.

Castiel also noticed how Dean's hand jerked towards the cabinet before stilling. Dean was already so used to caring for him. He often forget, if only for a second, that Castiel no longer needed basic human necessities—like cereal.

"One week," Castiel's thin lips pressed together and he had to force him eyes to stay up, to notice how Dean's eyes squinted into confusion, "I have one week."

Confusion turned to stony understanding, and Dean slowly fell apart in the little signs that Castiel had come to know so well. Dean nodded and turned around. His scarred arms stiffened and his hands tightened around the edge of the counter. He took a deep breath that barely shook.

"Can't you just recharge? Just steal another angel's grace?" Dean asked. When he turned around again, there was no emotion to be found on his face.

Castiel shrugged, a gesture that even he knew was useless. Pathetic. He was tired of the violence, of the constant bloodshed, of people dying in his name. He was so tired of it all.

But Dean wouldn't understand that, so Castiel sighed, "It wouldn't work."  
Dean sucked in an angry breath then, "So what am I supposed to do, Cas?"

His voice rose in that short question, but it wasn't really a question. It was desperation. It was fear of losing another person. Castiel knew this.

"Watch a movie with me," Castiel suggested. His eyes dropped and he stared at the black shoes he always wears –sensible shoes- because he couldn't force himself to watch Dean's poker face crack.

"A movie's not going to get your grace back," Dean said, but his voice had lost its strength. Castiel looked up, but avoided Dean's eyes. He fixed his own gaze on the forgotten bowl of cereal.

"Dean," he hesitated, not knowing what to say. No, this wasn't going to save him. No, it wasn't going to make matters better. Watching a movie with Dean would be pointless.

"Have you seen Lord of the Rings yet?" Dean asked suddenly, even though he knew the answer to that, "Come on, the DVD is in my room."

That's how, on one of the warmer days of August, Castiel found himself sitting on Dean's neatly made bed. The hunter stood beside the bed, watching the movie in a mostly dark room. His trench coat was folded neatly over one of Dean's chairs, and his white shirt was unbuttoned, just like it had been on that fatal date night.

"I want to be close to you," Castiel said, and that was that. Dean gave him a look that showed a lack of surprise and more hesitation than was necessary, but he still sat down on the bed beside Castiel. The movie played on.

Castiel woke up on something warm. His nose was pressed against skin that smelled like gun smoke and cheap soap (but not whiskey, for once). He let out a hum of contentment when Dean's arm tightened around him. The arm had been there when he woke up, but not when he fell asleep. He liked it being there.

He lifted his head and looked at Dean. Their faces were inches apart, and he felt Dean's breath on his face. A strange tension settled over them both, but the tension was not unfamiliar. Castiel had felt it from the very beginning.

The movie was still playing in the background. Castiel sucked in a breath, parted his lips-

What was he doing? He was acting strange. They both were.

And Castiel hummed again before resting his head back on the hunter's shoulder. He didn't sleep; he didn't need to anymore. If the stolen grace inside him wasn't running so low, he wouldn't have…he wouldn't have fallen asleep the first time.

"Is this okay?" Castiel asked.

"Yeah, it's okay," Dean squeezed Castiel's shoulders in proof. But he sighed, "Sam has to know, eventually."

"Tomorrow," Castiel decided. The younger Winchester deserved to know, but now wasn't the time, "I'll tell him tomorrow."

Time was running out. Castiel knew this, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it, especially not with Dean's arm around his shoulders protecting him from all the worries in the world.

* * *

(A/N): Does anyone have any suggestions for a specific outing between Cas and Dean, Cas and Sam, or Sam and Dean? This is Castiel's last week, and god knows that he deserves a good last few days. I'm thinking that maybe they go to the park.


	2. Day One Pt 2

Castiel did not tell Sam 'tomorrow'. He hadn't realized how early he and Dean had watched the movie, but when they finally left Dean's room, it was only three in the afternoon. Castiel looked around at the institutional halls, devoid of almost all personality.

He was going to die here. He would die in these halls, or maybe in one of these rooms, or maybe in the kitchen. He was going to die in a place that he –and the Winchesters, of course- called home.

"Sam," he found the younger Winchester's room and pushed the door open. Sam was sitting on his messy bed, the comforter half trapped under the hunter's legs and half falling onto the floor, "Can we talk?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam straightened up and dogeared the thin, worn book he held in his hands before putting in on his nightstand, "Hey, where have you and Dean been all day? Wait, don't answer that. I probably don't want to know."

Sam smirked, but Castiel wasn't as good at noticing things about the youngest Winchester as he was at noticing things about Dean. Later, he would think back to this moment and realize that Sam had only been 'teasing'.

"Your brother and I were not having sexual intercourse," he deadpanned. He didn't even stop to think about the act of it. Why would he even consider participating in such an archaic ritual with the elder Winchester? "I need to tell you something."

Meg had wanted to have sexual intercourse, once upon a time. He hadn't been immune to the implications of their one sided flirtation. Had she survived that day, he might have agreed to her requests. It certainly had been an enjoyable experience with the reaper, before she had attempted to kill him.

"Okay, shoot," Sam rolled one of his shoulders. He was completely oblivious to the heavy situation, even Castiel could tell. Should he try to be subtle, and ease Sam into the idea of his impending death? That sounded like a good idea. He could be subtle.

"I die in one week, and I would like to spend that week with you two," Castiel straightened his back and stared at the analog clock that hung on Sam's wall, "Do you want to go get ice cream?"

It was wasteful to eat, since his vessel did not need nourishment. Still, after all that he had done, hadn't he earned the right to be wasteful? He had fought for the right to sin, so why shouldn't he partake in his cause?

If the cereal that the Winchesters ate appealed to Castiel in any way, he might have even asked Dean for some this morning.

"Yeah, of course. Ice cream. Sure," he said it so quickly that Castiel wasn't sure if Sam had heard the first part of his statement. His face was blank except for the thin smile he put up, and his eyes went dark. Castiel recognized the infamous Winchester poker face.

Once, on a night where Sam had been depressed and drunk (and what a lot of alcohol it had taken to get past the Winchester's alcoholic tolerance), he had told Castiel about how he had striven to make all of Dean's dying wishes come true. It shouldn't have surprised Castiel that Sam would do the same for him.

"Dean is coming," Castiel informed him quietly, "He said that there's a good place beside the park."

"I know the place," Sam nodded, "Hey, could you send Dean in here for a second? I need to talk to him about a case."

Castiel wasn't an idiot. He knew that Sam wasn't working a case, and that he needed to talk to Dean about the imminent death of their favorite angel (he was quite confident that he was their favorite, not Balthazar or Gabriel). He found Dean and brought him to Sam's room, only to have the door shut in his face.

Had they been talking about a case, Castiel would have been allowed inside the room. He stood outside the room with his arms crossed, straining to hear the conversation inside. He was not a child to be protected from the harshness of the world, and he should be allowed to witness this conversation.

At first, he could only hear the low murmurs of tension that always seemed to follow the brothers, but naturally, their voices soon rose.

"And you don't think I'm affected by this, too? This is _Cas_ we're talking about!"

That was Dean.

"That's the point. You're acting like you're the only…" Sam sighed and cut himself off. Something fell, or was thrown, at the floor. His voice dropped, and Castiel had to press himself closer against the door to hear, "I care about the guy too, okay?"

"I know," that was Dean again, "I know, Sammy."

"And I get that you and Cas have a more profound bond. Of _course_ I know that. But don't toss aside our friendship because it doesn't stack up to your bond," Sam said. His voice rose, "And Cas, I know you're listening."

"I'm not listening," Castiel called through the door. The Winchesters fell silent until Castiel realized his mistake, "Oh."

The door opened and Castiel noticed that Dean was laughing. The eldest Winchester leaned against the frame of the door with his lips turned into a smile, "What are we going to do with you, Cas?"

Bury him.

No, that was a morbid thought. It wasn't like Castiel was overly focused on his death, and he certainly wasn't scared.

"You're going to get ice cream with me," he looked around Dean's wide torso to look at Sam, who was picking his book up off the floor, "Are you ready?"

"One sec," Sam promised him. A tight smile sat on his face. For once, he was the one who was easiest to read.

They were both forcing happiness and normality for his benefit. That was the Winchester way, it seemed. But who was he kidding? He'd known that this was the Winchester way for years.

Sam put his feet into the hiking boots he kept under his bed and slowly laced them up. As soon as he was done with the simple task (taking much longer than was necessary, Castiel noticed), he stood next to Castiel. Dean took the spot to Castiel's right, and the angel couldn't help but notice the height difference that separated them all.

If he straightened up just a bit, Castiel found that he was almost eye to eye with Dean. Still, he found that his gaze kept flickering back to what he was used to staring at: Dean Winchester's chapped lips. Dean's tongue flicked out to wet the parched skin, and Castiel couldn't help but wondering if the hunter was dehydrated.

With his mind stuck on thoughts such as those, he barely noticed that they had all loaded into the Impala. The seats were clean and free of blood, and the interior smelled like many of the bars that they often frequented. It smelled like alcohol and sweat, or as Dean liked to call it, _freedom._

His door in the backseat opened and Castiel blinked at the sudden light that shone on his eyes. Sam's shadow soon blocked the unwanted light, and Castiel exited the car without having majorly blinded his vessel. He winced and nearly tripped into Dean, his right leg letting out a shot of pain as he put weight on it.

"I just wish you hadn't healed Gadreel," Dean said. His arms were supporting Castiel and he was glaring at a crack in the sidewalk with more intensity than he had used when talking down the devil himself.

"We wouldn't have won-" Castiel leaned against the exterior of the car and a cough cut off what he was about to say. It was a loud, wet cough—the kind you hear an old man give off on his death bed. It was the kind of cough that signaled something was wrong with the body, "We wouldn't have won without Gadreel."

"We would have found a way," Sam said, "We always do."

Castiel did not say that they _did_ find a way, and that way had been through Gadreel. He wouldn't have changed anything that he had done, even if he was able to.

"Is that the ice cream shop?" Castiel asked, abruptly changing the subject because he knew that was the only way to stop the atmosphere from plummeting further. He gestured to a small café with a few empty tables outside and clean windows that covered most of the side facing them.

"Yeah, that's the place," Dean licked his lips in anticipation, but let the issue drop. With one hand securely attached to the sleeve of Castiel's trench coat, Dean led the way in crossing the street. It did not slip by unnoticed that he took extra precaution in looking both ways, and then rechecking to make sure that no car was coming to hit his precious little brother or angel.

Once they had reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street, Castiel expected Dean to let go of his sleeve. He did not; his calloused, scarred hands continued to hold onto the thick piece of fabric, bunching it up between his fingers.

"I am not a child, Dean," Castiel pulled his sleeve out of Dean's reach, "And I do not need to be lead around like one."

"I wasn't-" Dean started to argue, but Sam shot him a glare that clearly meant that Dean should let the matter go, "Fine. Okay, Cas."

Sam held open the door to the parlor, and a bell rung to signal their entrance. A woman with her two children stood at the counter, and the older of the siblings was holding his little sister's hand as they picked out their flavors.

Castiel blinked and his hand gripped the back of one of the many chairs inside the ice cream parlor, "Dean, I don't feel well."

He tried to keep his eyes on Dean, but black spots flooded his sight. Black spots on Dean, black spots on the floor, in the light, in the ice cream. Castiel's icy blue eyes flicked back and forth, up and down, trying to find a space that he could concentrate on.

He shut his eyes and swayed from side to side. He felt familiar hands take hold of his arms on either side, and then the dizziness grew so strong that he wasn't aware of anything else. After an eternity, his senses came back to him.

He was sitting in one of the chairs now, and he was bent over one of the circular tables. His head was neatly resting on his vessel's folded arms, and Dean's hand was heavy on the space right in between his back and neck.

Castiel's eyes opened and he squinted at the icecream parlor around him. The mother and her children had already sat down and were sitting in one of the booths closer to the back of the parlor, and Sam was at the counter. Castiel made a move to stand up, but Dean's hand stopped him.

"Sam's got it," Dean said, "You just sit."

"How long was I…out?" Castiel asked. He's never had pleasant experiences with fainting, but he doubted that many people liked it.

"Only a few seconds," Dean assured him. He froze suddenly, and looked at Castiel before slowly removing the hand, as if it would offend the angel. Castiel just stared at him before shifting his eyes to Sam.

Sam was staring at the girl behind the counter, but something seemed off. The girl couldn't have been more than sixteen, with long blonde hair tucked into a tight ponytail and a spray of unfortunate acne on her chin. To the best of Castiel's knowledge, Sam didn't often identify as a pedophile.

What was stranger was that Sam had no effect on the girl. Wherever Sam went, he received stares, either for his height, his hair, or the intimidating way in which he usually held himself. The girl wasn't affected at all. She held herself confidently, with her spine straight and shoulders thrown back. It was familiar, but Castiel couldn't remember who had had known who held herself that way.

Dean must have sensed Castiel's curiosity, because he looked at am and the girl. What he said next cleared up any confusion that had taken root in Castiel's mind, "She looks like mom. A younger version of her, anyway."

Dean was shaken, even if only slightly, by the girl. Castiel hesitated before leaning over the table to rub Dean's wrist in a comforting gesture. Dean pulled away.

_"Cas, what did I say about personal space?"_

Dean had asked that so long ago, but the words came back to haunt Castiel now. He yanked his hand back and looked at Sam, who was coming to sit at their table with three Styrofoam bowls of ice cream in his grip. His mouth was pressed into a tight smile, like it had been all day, and they did not talk about the girl's resemblance to Mary Winchester.

Sam handed Castiel a plastic spoon, "Are you alright, Cas?"

Castiel nodded and pushed his spoon into the mound of yellowish ice cream. Sprinkles littered the top of it, and he could feel them crunch under his teeth when he finally tried the dessert. It was French Vanilla, and more than half of it was gone before the warm August air had a chance to even begin to melt it.

"Have a bite of mine," Dean pushed his bowl towards Castiel, and the angel complied.

"Is that…?" Castiel raised a questioning eyebrow at Dean Winchester, which made Sam laugh. It was a real laugh, or at least close to the real thing.

"It's apple pie flavored," Sam told him, "Dean would have flipped if he found out that they had it and he didn't get to try it."

"Bitch," Dean mumbled, taking his icecream back from Castiel. He twirled the spoon in his fingers in between bites.

"Jerk," Sam returned their old, familiar gesture, "Hey, why don't you go to the park after this? I need to talk to that girl."

"She's jailbait," Dean said immediately before sobering up, "Sam, she's not mom, and she's not related."

"I know," Sam assured him, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that, too, "It's not about that."

"Then what's it about? You gonna try and find out the secret ingredient to your chocolate ice cream?" Dean asked, sarcasm heavy in his words. Castiel was proud of himself for picking up on the sarcasm.

But Castiel looked from Sam to the girl behind the counter, and back to Sam again. Dean wasn't going to lighten up on his little brother, but it was clear that whatever Sam had to say to the girl was important.

"Dean, I'd like to go to the park," Castiel announced. The Winchesters both stared at him. Dean looked at him with a mixture of exhasperation and disbelief. Sam's eyes, on the other hand, held hesitation and gratitude. For what, Castiel couldn't imagine.

"Fine," Dean agreed, just like they all knew that he would. They soon finished their bowls of ice cream, and the two went on their merry way (with Dean's hand secure on Castiel's trench coat as they crossed the street).

Sam watched them leave. While the girl was busy entertaining new customers, his thoughts swirled over their earlier discussion, a discussion that had begun by her knowing his name.

_"What can I get for you today, Sam?" the girl asked, already grabbing an ice cream scoop._


	3. Day One Pt 3

Being a third wheel was always as dull as it looked. Years ago, Sam thought that he'd never have to compete for his brother's attention. If anything, Dean was always _too_ focused on him. But as soon as Castiel had appeared, with his shaking windows and angel-superiority-complex, Dean was distracted.

And ever since the angel had fallen from heaven for him, Dean's eyes were always more on Castiel than the impending apocalypse. That was fine, of course. They all had different things to think about, and Sam could deal with his brother's new obsession.

But when they started staring at each other? When Dean looked at Castiel like he wanted to save and be saved, and when Castiel looked at Dean like he _knew _that it was worth rebelling against both God and his brothers for the human in front of him?

Well, Sam took that as a cue to give them some alone time.

His boots thudded against the pine flooring as he walked up to the counter that sold fourteen different flavors of ice cream. Most of them were the same flavors sold at every ice cream parlor in the country: cherry jubilee, vanilla, chocolate, double chocolate, and extreme chocolate. There were different flavors at the end, advertised as something seasonal, like apple pie and pumpkin spice.

"What can I get for you today, Sam?" the girl behind the counter asked. His eyes wandered up from the tubs of colorful ice cream and latched onto the girl in front of him. She couldn't have been out of middle school, with her blonde curls pulled up high into a ponytail and with a baseball cap sitting on top of her head. Her grin was warm and wide, and her nose was narrow and long.

She looked like his mother.

"I need a vanilla, an extreme chocolate, and an-" he started to say, forcing his eyes to stare at the ice cream and not the high schooler in front of him.

"Dean would like our pecan pie flavored ice cream," she drawled in a way that was strangely familiar, but it sounded weird coming out of this girl's mouth, "It's our flavor of the week."

"Apple pie is fine, thanks," Sam said. Dean might love pecan pie, but the ice cream flavor might be going too far, and-

He had never met this girl before in his life. How did she know his name?

His head snapped up and his shoulders hunched as he took a step back, "What are you?"

"Come on Sam," she sighed, her grin inching up the left side of her face, growing more and more unbalanced, "Is that any way you treat an old friend? I even chose this face just for you."

He looked at her, not at the body, but at _her_. He looked at the slinky way she held herself, like she was a stray dog. He looked at the smirk that sat on her face, a smirk that was familiar, and-

"Meg," he said her name, watching as subtle happiness spread through her features, "Hi."

She put three bowls on his side of the counter, "Word got passed down the grapevine that my unicorn is running out of steam."

Sam swallowed and nodded his head, "He'll be relieved to see you before his week is up. He likes you."

This was a day full of surprises, but at least this one was pleasant. Meg sacrificed her life –or so he'd thought- to protect them all, and he felt that earned her the right to speak to their angel.

"I think he's gotten over his little crush on me," Meg said softly, her eyes wandering across the room, "Or, at least, he's found someone better. I don't want to mess that up."

"You wouldn't mess it up," Sam said, looking back at them, "Meg, do you want to talk later? I don't want their ice cream to melt."

"Of course," Meg nodded, "That'll be seven fifty, by the way. And be sure to leave a nice tip."

He's not sure what all happens when he sits down with Castiel and Dean again. The banter and flirtation between the other two are lost on him; his mind was in a whirlwind of question. The little knot of tension between his eyebrows grew tenser and he sighed, making up some thin excuse as they both leave the ice cream parlor. They passed by the car without more than a second glance, so they can't be going far. He wished that he'd been paying attention.

Meg came over to wipe off the table. The body she is possessing has frail, skinny arms that make it look like she's never seen a day of work in her life. Meg didn't seem to feel the burn of overworking the body she resided in.

"You're alive," he stated, running a hand through his hair.

"Apparently," she nodded.

"How?" Sam asked. He laced his calloused hands in front of him and stared into her too-blue eyes. They weren't even blue in this light. They were bordering on gray, like slate, "And who are you possessing?"

"This girl was about to overdose," Meg shrugged, "I knew that you didn't like it when we borrowed bodies that were already taken, so I just saved this one. I'll return it as soon as she realizes that she wants it back."

"She's awake?" Sam asked.

"Sometimes," Meg shrugged, like it didn't really matter, "So, Castiel-"

"How are you alive?" Sam's voice was steadily rising. Something about this wasn't right. Nothing could be this easy, and he did not like to be tricked. Having Meg back was probably too good to be true (and this was assuming that having Meg back was a good thing).

"I don't know. Crowley did a pretty convincing job of _killing me_," she hissed, leaning forwards, "Now, Castiel. How is he doing?"

"I don't understand why you can't see for yourself," Sam said, his mouth twisting into its usual purse.

"What good would it do?" she asked. She didn't want to talk about this. Too bad.

"He likes you!" Sam raised his voice and ignored the looks that the patrons of the store shot him. He didn't know what they assumed about him and the girl in front of him, but to be frank, he didn't care.

Meg let out a harsh sigh, crossing her arms and leaning back. Her nose flared in agitation, "He'd be much happier if I didn't barge into his life, because he's already pretty happy, judging by his puppy eyes for your brother."

"You're jealous," Sam said slowly, finally connecting the dots. He straightened the worn material of his shirt (a plaid button down, of course) and sighed. The jingling bells that signalled the exit of customers and the faint vanilla smell that tainted the air around him did not fit the conversation they were having.

"No shit," she snorted. Her vessel's slightly misaligned teeth showed in the snarl Meg gave him just then.

"They haven't done anything yet. At least, I don't think so," Sam said. If Dean had made a move, there would have been signs. The puppy dog eyed stares didn't necessarily count as a sign. They've been doing that for years.

"We both know that doesn't mean anything. I don't have a chance in hell with that angel, not anymore," Meg said. She shook her head and tipped her chair so that it balanced on the back legs.

Sam sighed, leaning back again. He nodded slowly, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. I don't need a pity party. As long as Clarence is happy, I'm…I'm good," she let her chair down again; the long legs hit the wooden floor with a loud _thwack_, again bringing attention to them.

"I'm not apologizing for that," Sam told her. He ran a hand through his flat hair, giving it volume again. He took her soft hand in her own, running his thumb over her skin in gentle circles.

"Then what for?" she asked, squeezing his hand back. The physical contact was...nice. She was warm and strong, and somehow, she was here.

"I'm apologizing for the fact that if you don't come visit Castiel, I'm going to tell him that you visited but refused to show your face. I'm going to tell the truth," he informed her. She went tense under his grip, but he refused to let her pull her hand away. She was trapped here with him for now, and she was not going to disappear again.

"Sam, I-" she shook her head, her eyes wide in what one might mistake as innocent fear. But Sam knew her. She was never innocent.

"No. No, we're not talking about you. We are talking about Castiel, and we are talking about what is best for him. You're going to visit," he told her with no uncertainty to be found in his voice. Either Meg got over herself, or Cas would spend his last hours feeling abandoned and lied to by one of his closest friends. Meg was self centered, but she wasn't that self centered.

"That's not for the best. You have to know that," she ripped her hand away from his own.

"All I know is that you're being selfish," Sam stood up and turned towards the door to the

coffee shop. They'd been in here for longer than he had thought. The yellowed sunlight that filtered in through the wide windows and glass door showed that it was already sunset, "I'll see you soon, Meg."

Dean and Castiel sat in one of the few benches placed out of the sun. The tall, swaying pine trees gave them both some much needed shade. Late afternoon sun flooded the park around the duo, giving them the perfect setting for any conversation that they wished to have.

Unfortunately, Dean didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to say at all.

"Why do you think Sam wanted to talk to the girl?" Castiel asked. His voice was still gravelly, still sounded like he had smoked five packs of cigarettes for ten plus years. Dean shrugged from his end of the bench.

He couldn't sit as close to Castiel as he normally did. Not in public. He didn't want people to make assumptions about the two of them. What fully grown men went out for icecream and then went to the park to hang out alone?

Gay couples did that, and he was not gay. He liked women. That was an obvious fact, and

Dean did not understand why he kept reminding himself of that.

The fact that he liked women, however, did not stop Dean from noticing the way Castiel's hands clutched at the sleeves of his trenchcoat, or the way he seemed to shrink in on himself. The used-to-be-a-crazy-god looked lonely on his side of the wooden bench.

"Dean?" Castiel asked, turning his head towards him. The hair Dean had been meaning to give a trim fell into Castiel's too-blue eyes. They both needed a haircut, Dean realized. But then he realized that haircuts probably weren't the most important thing right now, or for the next week.

"Why does your hair always do that?" Dean asked, and like he'd done a million times before to girls he barely knew, he reached forward and brushed the offending bangs out of the way, "You shouldn't cover up your eyes."

He froze there, his rough hand still tangled in the dark, tangled bird's nest that Castiel called hair. It was soft, softer than any girl's hair that he'd ever touched.

Dean pulled his hand away and leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head, "How else are you supposed to pick up girls? It's not like you qualify for the tall part of tall, dark, and handsome."

"That's not my main priority at the moment," Castiel said quietly, pointing out the obvious, "But I'm handsome by human standards?"

"I guess some chicks would go for you," Dean nodded, "Hell, if I were a chick, I'd totally jump you."

It didn't occur to him until the words were out of his mouth that maybe that wasn't the straightest thing he could ever say to a guy. But hell, he'd said worse things. _Hey Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that...well, I got laid._

"Jump me? Dean, I think we both know that I could take you in a fight," Castiel said. Dean sighed, shaking his head. Castiel couldn't even tie his tie correctly. He couldn't expect the angel to understand every saying that has ever been said, and maybe it was good that Castiel remained in the dark on this one.

"It's just a saying, Cas," he said, "So what do you want to do for dinner? We could pick up Sam and then go to-"

"I'm tired," Castiel said. Before Dean could finish his sentence, before he could even process what Castiel had said, the angel's too-blue eyes closed shut, and his head tilted back into an ungraceful sleeping pose.

"Oh fuck," Dean cursed. No way. No one ever got to sleep like that. No one was ever just out like a light. Even earlier today, when Castiel had drifted to sleep on him, the angel had stayed awake for a good amount of time, awake but not conscious enough to have the good sense to fall asleep somewhere else.

As Dean was mentally freaking out (because what was he supposed to do with an unconscious angel? Those things were _impossible_ to wake up most of the time, and what if someone came up to him: demon, angel, or otherwise? What was he supposed to do?), Castiel fell. Granted, Castiel had fallen greater distances, and Dean had survived having much heavier things fall on him, but he still winced when the angel's head collided against his shoulder. Castiel didn't seem to wake up upon impact.

It was almost an exact repeat of this morning, except this time, there was no movie to distract Dean from the being on top of him. He was heavy, which wasn't new information, but he did seem hot to the touch. Dean brought up a hand and placed it on Castiel's forehead, feeling the searing heat radiate off from the skin. That was new.

Dean let his tense muscles relax, because there was no way he was going to wake Castiel up. He needed the sleep. he probably also needed medicine for whatever symptoms that Castiel was keeping quiet about (fatigue and dizziness were all that Dean knew about, but he'd make Castiel tell him the whole truth soon), but he didn't think that hospitals knew how to treat illnesses caused by angel grace running out.

The children slowly left the park, the sun sunk down over the city's skyscrapers, and the swing sets were soon all abandoned, the metal chains groaning in the wind. Still, Castiel didn't wake up.

It was only when Dean saw the familiar mane that only his brother was ridiculous enough to wear that he nudged Castiel, "Hey asshole, wake up."

"I am not an asshole," Castiel mumbled almost immediately, though his voice was still muted with sleep, "And I wasn't asleep."

"You were so asleep," Dean said, not sure why the angel would ever claim otherwise. It was pretty obvious what had happened.

"No, I was listening," Castiel said, "To the park. And the wind. And you. Your heartbeat gets loud sometimes, Dean."

They didn't go out to dinner that night. Dean made them his special omelettes, which just meant that he added tomatoes and spinach to his scrambled eggs, but no one complained. They were one of the best things that Dean could make, and this time, he even had let Castiel whisk the eggs. After weeks of Dean shutting them out of the kitchen whenever he attempted to actually cook, it was a welcome change to do even the simplest of tasks.

While they were eating their omelettes at the living room table, with the two brightest lamps turned on and illuminating the dark room, the Winchester brothers told Castiel stories about their childhood. The good stories. They told him about pranks they'd played, about mishaps they'd had at playgrounds, at how they'd survived highschool. Sam told a few stories from his days in college, stories that Dean was finally ready to hear, and Dean told a few stories about hunting trips he'd shared with just John.

Castiel made a joke that was funnier in Enochian, but the Winchesters laughed at it anyway.

Sam got a call once their omelettes were all done, and he excused himself from the table with something that looked kind of like a smile. He informed them that they'd have a guest tomorrow, someone that they could probably trust. Castiel took his word for it. Sam clutched the cell phone to his chest until Dean said that yes, he could go, and he left. They could hear him talking with whoever was on the other end of the line, but from the bitchy tone of his voice, they had no idea who it could be.

That night, Castiel retired to his own bed and flopped down on top of the covers, too tired to pull the blankets around him. That night, he had forgotten to even take off his tie. That night, he was too exhausted to do anything. The process of his dying had truly begun, and the process begun with overbearing tiredness.

When he woke up, his nose was deep into a tan comforter that -he took a deep breath- smelled familiar, like gun smoke and cheap soap. His jacket was hung over the side of the chair across the room, and his tie was strewn over his jacket. But his mind was fogged with sleep, and, like the human he was, he turned back over into the protection of his blanket, and fell back asleep.


End file.
